Appointment In Savannah, Part Two
by cuddyclothes
Summary: When Sam mysteriously changes, Dean tracks down the culprit responsible. He isn't prepared for the consequences, particularly the snot and remembering his blankie. Crack/angst. Dean, OC - Same OC as in Part One


Dr. Penzance unlocked his office door, grateful that he had an hour until his first patient. It was a lovely morning. He would have time to fix himself some coffee, and—

"UHNG!" A man's denim-clad arm was around his neck, and he felt the barrel of a pistol against his temple.

"Who—who—"

"I'm _Sam Winchester's brother_," the man said. "What have you done to him?"

"I haven't done anything. Now, if you calm down, Mr. Winchester—"

The man released him. The man was shorter than his brother, with more delicate features, but a killer's eyes. No wonder Sam wanted privacy, living with a violent lunatic. "Come on, you sonavabitch, you've done something to him! He didn't want me knowing about you, but I followed him here. When he came out, he'd been crying. My brother is the most important person in the world to me, so dammit, what have you done?"

"I'm—I'm his therapist. Sam has been seeing me for two weeks, twice a week." Dr. Penzance paused. "You must be Dean."

"Therapist? You expect me to believe that crap?"

"You can see my diplomas on the wall, Dean. I can't discuss your brother's case, but you should know that I often treat hunters. Garth sent him here."

"Fucking _Garth_!"

"Why don't you sit down, Dean? Perhaps we can talk about this."

"I don't need small talk, Dr. Feelgood, I need you to promise to never see my brother again."

"That's a decision your brother has to make, Dean. Please, sit down."

Dean pocketed his gun and sat down in the leather chair as if it was going to swallow him. Dr. Penzance took his seat opposite, his face radiating bland concern. "Dean, though I disapprove of your methods, I admire your loyalty to your brother."

"He's family, Doc. He's the only family I got."

"Do you find it...threatening that he is talking to me? A stranger?"

"He shouldn't have to! He can talk to me!"

Dr. Penzance smiled. "My patients talk to me in private, allowing them to express their deepest feelings. Now, Dean, let's take you."

Dean gave him a sidelong look. "Why?"

"You're looking at me suspiciously, your body is coiled, and you are trying not to betray any feelings except righteous anger. Am I right?"

"This touchy-feely stuff is crap." Dean made to stand up, but was checked by a noise from the doctor.

"Uh-uh! Are you afraid, Dean?"

"I'm not afraid of anything!" Dean spat.

Dr. Penzance tilted his head, gazing into Dean's eyes. "You've had a hard time of it, haven't you, Dean."

Dean laughed bitterly. "You have no freakin' idea."

"Hunters have a difficult life. Demons, monsters, never being able to let down your guard, not even trusting those around you. They could be possessed, they could be monsters, or worst of all, they could desert you."

"Sam would never desert me."

"But that's what you're truly afraid of, isn't it, Dean? Sam was able to build a life without you, without hunting, but you've never really been able to do that, have you?"

Dean was quiet for a moment. "I tried. But no, I couldn't." He raised his voice. "And that just sucks! He can get along without me? I can't get along without him! He's my little brother! He got a house with some chick while I was in Purgatory—" his voice cracked. "It's like he didn't even _care_ that I was in hell's armpit! Why didn't he look for me, Doc?"

"I'm afraid I can't divulge anything Sam has told me."

Dean whipped out his pistol and pointed it at Dr. Penzance. "Oh, yes you can."

"I'm sorry, Dean, but killing me would not only get you arrested, your brother would not forgive you, and many hunters are my patients. Please put down the gun. You're not responsible for Sam. He's a grown man. You're a grown man. Why can't you let go, even a little bit?"

Dean looked down at the floor for a long minute. "I can't," he said to the carpet. "I just can't. I'll lose him, like I've lost everybody else. My mom, my dad, everybody."

"I am sorry about your mother's death. Tell me about your father. He seems to have been a great influence on your lives. Do you miss him?"

The pause before Dean spoke seemed endless. That was all right, Dr. Penzance was used to sitting opposite strong, silent types.

"No."

"Why?"

"He did the best he could—" Dean's head snapped up. "No, he didn't! Jesus, dragging us around the country, to motel rooms, training us to be killer Marines like he was—we didn't have a goddamn childhood! We could have stayed at a relative's house!" Dean gave a bitter laugh. "Imagine the Great Santini being your dad! I had to do fifty pushups whenever I screwed up, and I was freakin' seven years old." Dean's voice cracked again. "He raised us like caged vicious rats. I couldn't have a girlfriend, I couldn't go to chess club—" His eyes widened. "Damn, I never told anyone that before."

"So, your father wasn't supportive of your interest in chess?"

"He wasn't supportive about anything except killing monsters." A tear slid down Dean's face. "I didn't have any friends 'cause we kept changing schools. I could always get chicks, but man, all I wanted to was to hang out with a bunch of guys, smoke pot, play chess, learn to play the tuba. It's a highly underappreciated instrument! Doc, I wanted an okay life. One I could stand." More tears came pouring out. "Why didn't Dad let me play the tuba? Is that fair, Doc? Is that right?"

"Right isn't the question. How you feel is the question."

"Like crap. All the time." Dean's body was heaving with sobs. "I had a stuffed penguin. I kept it hidden from Dad and Sam. I didn't want them to laugh at me. Then—then D-Dad found me playing with it—and he made me tear it apart myself! He didn't want me to feel attached to anything or anyone except him and Sam. What kind of asshole _does_ that?" Snot was running out of his nose, but Dean didn't seem to notice. "Squiggy was my only friend! Dad was a sociopath, and now I'm-I'm a sociopath!" The last words barely came out, Dean was crying so hard. Dr. Penzance handed him a box of tissues.

"You're not a sociopath, Dean. Sociopaths have no feelings."

"I have feelings! _Sonavabitch, do I have feelings!_ Sometimes all I want is to be tucked into a warm soft bed in a nice house, with my blankie—Dad took that away, too—in pajamas." Dean's voice rose to a wail. "WHY IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK TO OWN PAJAMAS? Some dick in suburbia has three pairs of pajamas! I want pajamas with baseball players on them!" He coughed, he was crying so hard. "When we pass a kid's store, I-I look at the onesies and—and-and I wish I had one, Doc, with feet and a little hoodie. Damn you, Dad, you took away Squiggy and my blankie and pajamas!" He blew his nose and wiped his snot-covered face. He tried and failed to smile. "Damn, Doc, you sure got a lot out of me."

"Same time next week, then?"

Dean nodded, sniffling and wiping his reddened eyes. "Sure. But please, don't tell Sammy."

"You have complete confidentiality."


End file.
